


My Blade for Your Fortitude

by Keyade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/F, F/M, Feudal Japan, M/M, Samurai AU, Slow Build, Tokugawa shogunate, huge complicated plot, lots of swordfighting, starts with Kagehina but will feature other pairs in equal detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyade/pseuds/Keyade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legend tells of 12 pairs of enchanted katana and 24 young samurai destined to master them. One sword for the right-handed, one for the left-handed – two halves of a perfect whole - the key to immense power. To become a wielder is the highest of honours, and yet, to be unable to find a partner for one’s matching sword is the greatest of frustrations. In a dangerous world of relentlessly feuding samurai clans, Kageyama finds himself in the worst of predicaments; blessed to be the right-handed wielder of his clan but perpetually unable to find his fated companion. And without the other, each blade is utterly worthless.</p><p>Half-way across the land of the rising sun, Hinata is a young temple acolyte setting foot beyond his mountain for the first time to see the world. </p><p>This story begins with Kagehina but will feature Iwaoi & Kuroken in equal detail. Also features heavily: Bokuaka, Daisuga, Asanoya, Yakulev, Tsukkiyama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Festival of Return

***

Kageyama remembers the day he was promised a pair of wings.

It is not a day any Wielder can forget. Katanas, especially those of the Twelve Pairs, are the strangest of ancient things. Across centuries of bloody battlefields, they’ve saved and taken more lives than the scales of a carp and hold more memories than the hairs of a fox. Their tales are many, but they are surprisingly unwilling to share them. To receive a one of the Twelve Pairs’ memories is to be chosen by a divine hand. To be bestowed the greatest honor known to man. To bear the weight of dynasties. To breathe every last breath of those who fell to the blade.

To turn from a boy into a man overnight, as Kageyama had.

He has done everything exactly right. Days and nights out in the cold, with not a day’s break, practicing with near-maniac fervor to master an ancient blade. He has trained harder than anyone else. They call him a genius – born for the blade. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, both hands bloodied from gripping his practice _bokken_ without rest and callouses on his toes from pivoting against imaginary enemies in his straw sandals. And yet he remains as he had always been - a single, flightless wing.

They call him the Lonely King. It is more insulting than a lowly criminal spitting at his feet.

Kageyama glances at the sword rack where the katana dictating his entire existence rests, furnished in the most ornately crafted _koshirae_ (sword dressing) his clan can afford. A flicker of insecurity stirs somewhere within him, although it is but silly anxiety. There’re usually two blades on the rack, identical to the novice eye, resting parallel to each other in companionable silence. Today, there is only one katana – his katana – and there’s something unsettling about seeing it alone. Its twin is off roaming the lands beyond their city with Lord Daichi _yet again_ , for nothing but the chance of finally finding its master. Quite plainly, to call it a chance is a laughable lie. Over seven years of sheer disappointment, it has become a mere formality, and an unnecessarily bothersome one at that. Even the scrubby fisherfolk by the docks know that such a master would never be found.  It didn’t matter if they overturned every stone and summoned every able left-handed young man in the land. He doesn’t exist, as much as mountain caves full of glittering gold do not exist, as much as a meat Nishinoya-san doesn’t love doesn’t exist. Like so many ill-fated Wielders before him, the Gods have chosen Kageyama amongst thousands, but have forgotten to bless him with a partner worthy of the matching blade.

If it is a joke amongst the Divine, it is a terrible one.

There is a knock on his _shoji_ door, and Kageyama attempts to easen the frown he’d only just begun to realize he was wearing.

“Enter,” he says, his voice scruffy with the aftertaste of unpleasant thoughts.

It is Lord Sugawara, dressed in a deep maple-coloured _kataginu_ , the ceremonial stiff-shouldered coat for significant occasions. Kageyama is similarly attired in a kataginu, and so is every other man of status in the Karasuno clan today. It is a day of celebration, although everyone knows full well there is no reason to celebrate. (If you discount Tanaka and Nishinoya’s glee over the variety of smoked meat they’ve procured for the occasion, that is.)

Lord Sugawara gives a shallow bow at the waist, and Kageyama returns a nod in kind. It is nowhere near the formality they should observe when they’re in the view of others, but they are alone and free to ignore their differences in status, even for a short while. At times like this, Lord Sugawara is simply ‘Suga’ – Kageyama’s close confidante, a man who is considered nothing short of family.

“Their runner has just reached the city gates,” Suga says. “Daichi’s entourage should reach by late afternoon.”

He says no more, and Kageyama’s unspoken question is answered. He gives a curt nod as the other samurai places a hand on his tense shoulders. Failure, as it had always been, year after year after year. And failure it will be, for all the years to come until his time was up. But there is no need to sulk or scowl or throw a tantrum, as he had when he was younger. It’d been a trying six months for Suga with Daichi so far away, and as Kageyama grew out of teenage-hood, he became increasingly embarrassed to have to make Suga go through the same torment every year. Today is the best day of Suga’s year, and the least Kageyama can do for his family is to put on a face of (relatively) good cheer.

“That’s good to hear,” he manages past the lump in his throat.

Suga gives a little sigh as he straightens out the creases in Kageyama’s coat, the way his own mother would have done if she’d still been around. His hands are certainly as nimble as hers, and Suga reminds Kageyama of her at every turn. They have the same tall and slender build, carry themselves with the same refined elegance and have the same tender eyes. Perhaps the resemblance is born out of Suga being in her service before he began to serve Kageyama, her son. But rather than giving Kageyama painful nostalgia, the resemblance is almost comforting. It is as if Suga had taken her place after she’d left them.  

“Don’t smile at me if it looks like you just swallowed a fly,” he chides, fussing about. “Honestly, I prefer it when you were younger, when you threw your sandals at Daichi.”

Kageyama’s laugh is dry, though it is genuine. “Then don’t pretend to be sorry for me when you’re dying to burst into dance and song, Suga. And I’m alright, everyone knows -”

“We’ll find him,” Suga says before he can go on. “There’re so many cities and little villages Daichi’s yet to explore. The left-hander is out there, ready to be found. And we’ll find the little bastard, definitely and certainly.”

 _That’s what you used to tell Oikawa_ , Kageyama thinks, but he knows better than to bring it up. _Before he ran out of time._

“There’s still next year,” he lies, for Suga’s sake.

“And the year after that,” Suga confirms, straightening some of the scrolls in his shelf. “We found Tsukki, didn’t we? Yamaguchi was sure there was no one for him, but Tsukki came along, and we became the first clan in the city to have a complete Wielder pair. Luck has always been with Karasuno, so don’t you worry!”

 _That’s why I won’t find mine,_ Kageyama thinks, the weight in his chest growing heavier. _All that luck was due the moment we found that bastard Tsukishima. The Gods can’t let one clan have two complete pairs._

Because that’s too lucky.

It isn’t as if he’d rather the luck came to him instead of Yamaguchi. Suga had avoided ever mentioning it again after the incident passed, but Kageyama remembers it as clear as day. Yamaguchi had been brave, much braver than Kageyama could ever be. To save the clan the deepest of embarrassments and to avoid wasting time when another Wielder more suitable could take his place, any Wielder who failed to find their match before their twenty-first summer had only one choice – ritual suicide with two deep cuts over the abdomen with a _tantou_ (short sword). No one in Karasuno wished it on him, and by Gods did they try to talk him out of it, but the matters of one’s honour were sorely one’s own calling. Yamaguchi’s time had come to an end, and he had accepted it with the quiet resignation of a true warrior.

But the Gods must have been moved by his courage, for Tsukishima appeared days before Yamaguchi would be dressed in white, saving Yamaguchi’s life, honour and future all of a sudden with that infuriating cynical, aloof manner of his. Kageyama could punch that sneering triptaker in the face and hug him at the same time. It had been a close shave, close enough for Kageyama to know that when his time came, there would be no “Tsukki” to appear out of the blue.

Two more years to go. It is as if he has an ailment with no cure.

In the distance, a _horagai_ horn trumpets – a sound too forlorn to mark the beginning of a celebration, in Kageyama’s opinion. It is just as well, because it isn’t quite a celebration anyway. Suga brightens for a fraction of a second before matching Kageyama’s somber expression.

Daichi has returned, with no findings in tow, for the fifth year.

***

“Uuuuoooohhhh!”

“Huge, isn’t it! Huge as you thought?”

“Huger! Way, way huger! It’s like woooah, and poom! Amazing!”

Hinata almost loses his precarious footing with the zeal of his gesturing, but Yachi grabs him in time. In the black pine trees above, crows flutter away in alarm as the two travelers disturb their quiet.

“Get back down, you dunce. You’ll fall and die before you ever get to see the famous Karasuno city!”

 _Karasuno_. The sound of it is enough to send his heart pounding like a _taiko_ drum. Karasuno, the city of the Six Blades. Presided over by the ancient and esteemed Karasuno clan - the only samurai clan in the land to have ever owned three out of the Twelve Twin Blades. Elated anticipation rises rapidly in his chest, ready to burst right out of his body. This is the place of legends, the city of the tales old Master Ukai told them when they were children. The city Hinata dreams everyday of seeing, and yet never dreamt to actually stand before. Perched where he is atop the mountain cliff overlooking the city, the view of tall, impenetrable walls and never-ending tiny buildings stretch into infinity, never enough for his hungry eyes and too much to take at the same time. They are so high up that half of the city is shrouded in mist, but faint sounds of bustling life can be heard. Beyond the city rests the glimmering emerald sea, the guide they’d been following for months which will eventually lead them to their destination.

He wants to sprout wings and fly, just so that he can dive straight into Karasuno without having to descend the mountain first.

Yachi reads his thoughts and drags him away from the edge by his collar.

“We can reach the gates before nightfall if we hurry,” she says, slinging her wooden _kururibako_ bag over her shoulder. Hinata follows suit, and they make their careful way down the mountain rocks. Well, Yachi is careful, at least. The remainder of the journey is a tedious nuisance between them and the city, and he can’t seem to get to it fast enough.

“What is Karasuno’s other nickname?” Yachi quizzes in attempt to break the monotony.

Hinata skips over a log, nearly crashing headfirst into a muddy patch of leaf litter. He catches himself in time and throws Yachi a silly grin. “I know this one! The City of Crows!”

Yachi looks almost disappointed that he would actually get it right, and proceeds to find a harder question.

“Who is the _daimyo_ overlord of Karasuno’s samurai clan?”

Hinata pauses to consider this, his nose scrunching up in thought.

“What’s his name again…” he mutters. “Lord…Oikawa Tooru?”

“Ha, wrong!” Yachi exclaims with triumphant superiority. “Lord Oikawa _was_ indeed the heir to the Karasuno clan, but he was ordered to commit _seppuku_ (ritual suicide) by the shogun before he could claim the position! The current overlord is Lord Kageyama Tobio, his younger brother.”

Hinata’s nose scrunches further. “Kageyama?” he says, frowning. “What a dumb name for a samurai. I prefer the sound of Oikawa!”

“You’d better not say such things within the city,” Yachi warns, drawing a finger over her neck. “Or even here, for that matter.”

“Why not?”

Yachi shuffles closer, lowering both her gaze and her voice as she whispers. “I heard a tale about Lord Oikawa when I was here two summers back.”

Hinata catches onto her conspiratorial tone, and curiosity lights up his eyes. “A tale?” he whispers back, containing the bounce on his feet. Yachi looks around furtively before continuing, but save for a few ruffled crows, there is not a soul in sight.

“They say Lord Oikawa was a man of many charms and talents,” she says, an edgy tremor in her voice. “He was so loved and his death so unjustified, his servants couldn’t bear to decapitate him as they were supposed to after he cut his abdomen.”

Hinata’s eyes grow larger as she leans even closer, glancing at the swaying trees as if they had ears. “He bled to death and was buried whole, but the very next day, his body was stolen from his grave. He’d been a single Wielder, and his sword pair was stolen too. Karasuno townsfolk say mountain bandits stole the body and the swords for their witchcraft. To this day, the sword pair remains missing, and some folk even say…”

Hinata feels his pulse leaping in his throat. He swallows, eyes wide.

“What do they say?” he whispers back, his voice too loud in the empty forest.

“That the mountain bandits have reawakened Lord Oikawa’s corpse with their witchcraft. Now, he roams these mountains, rotting and demonic, haunting travelers who dare say his name.”

Hinata gives an audible ‘eep!’ as the blood leaves his face. _I said his name!_ he thinks, feeling his hands grow clammy. _Lord Oikawa’s ghost will eat me!_

All of a sudden, Yachi bursts out in a peal of laughter, clutching her stomach as she bends over in giggles.

“Look at your face!” she wheezes. “You look like you just saw his walking corpse!”

“Yachi!” Hinata garbles, unable to decide between hiding his reddening face in his hands and pinching Yachi’s nose. Not again! To think that she’d managed to spin a ghost story every village they went and still get him every time!

But there is no time to stay annoyed for long. Mountain ghosts and long-dead samurai lords forgotten, Yachi breaks into a run down the now-gentle slope as Hinata chases closely behind, laughing without a care in the world as they head towards the city of their childhood daydreams.

***

It is almost dark by the time they pass through Karasuno’s _Nishimon_ (West Gate), but still light enough to see city life at its finest. Dressed in the garb of temple acolytes, they’d been easily welcomed by the guards at the gates as servants of Gods usually are, especially when Yachi obliged to give them each a blessing of good health. They been told that they’ve come at a good time – there’s a festival today. It is their chance to see Karasuno at its most vibrant and most beautiful.

Hinata’s heart hasn’t stopped thumping since he got his first view of Karasuno atop the cliff, but now, it hammers so fast that it’s almost painful. He’s here, _finally here_. Inside the very city walls of the most wondrous place in his tiny world, leagues and leagues away from home, many times further than the furthest mountain village old Ukai had ever let him venture to. He wants to take a deep breath, but all he can manage are shallow gasps. His hands and feet are tingling as if he’s just touched fresh snow, and his ears are buzzing like summer cicadas.

He stands where he is, so stiff with awe that he can’t even shuffle his feet. He is no longer at Temple Mountain, the only place he’s been all his life. _He is in Karasuno._

As soon as that thought settles in his mind, the sights, smells and sounds of the city begin to rush over him like a tsunami wave, enormous in number and overwhelming in intensity, too many to understand at once. He’s never seen so many people in his life. Everything is a hundred – no, a _thousand_ -fold of what he is used to back home. The air was suffused with the scent of meats, rice cakes and sweets that he has only smelled once or twice in his limited temple life, or perhaps never before. There are fishermen, blacksmiths, market vendors, potters, cart drivers, and farmers heaving stacks of freshly cut straw everywhere he looks, streaming in and out of his sight in a never-ending tirade. The sounds of market bantering and a thousand concurrent conversations swirl about his ears, their collective sound far louder than the loudest of their temple gongs. He catches glances of brightly dressed _kabuki_ dancers and _geisha_ entertainers in the most elaborate kimono and head-dresses he’s ever seen, and even an occasional flash of important looking swordsmen astride handsome horses.

 _Karasuno is the city of many a famed samurai, a place where you might just catch a glimpse of a distinguished warrior in the streets._ It is as if everything old Ukai had told him about in stories had suddenly transformed from abstract imagination to stark reality. It is frightening, breath-taking, threatening and exhilarating – a great conglomeration of loud, bright and attention demanding things in the same time and place. There’re too many things to see, and yet no one sees them – the pair of modestly dressed acolytes from the most rural of mountains. In a strange city that’s larger than life, they are small and unworthy of any attention.

“W-what festival is it?” he manages, swallowing before he can choke on the lump in his throat.

“The Festival of Return,” Yachi replies, looking nearly as dazed. “I was here around this time too, two summers ago. The men at the gate say they’re celebrating the return of Lord Daichi, who is back after six months of searching for a left-handed wielder worthy of Lord Kageyama.”

“Ooh!” Hinata exclaims, feeling some blood flow back into his fingers. Finally something that he knows a little about in this city of bizarre wonder (even if it’s just a _tiny_ little). Old Ukai has told him about Wielders, and how difficult it is for the chosen to find another Wielder for the matching blade. How they embark on great searches across vast areas of land for such a partner. Samurai have come to their temple on their searches before, only to be turned away by Old Ukai - much to Hinata’s chagrin.

To be fair, there really is no way their crumbling shrine can house someone as important as a potential Wielder, but he’d have to liked to see a samurai up close.

“They found one?” he asks, his voice rising in anticipation.

“They didn’t.”

_Oh._

“But why the celebration, then?”

Yachi attempts to steer them to a street corner where the crowd is less ardent, stopping beside what appears to be a yet-open teahouse.

“It’s a ritual, I’ve heard. The city celebrates the return of their Seeking Lord whether or not he is successful, and if not, take the opportunity to ask the Gods for another year of grace.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of bother! But a good excuse to feast!”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Yachi agrees dryly.

Hinata looks at the swelling crowd, his eyes bright as a thought occurs to him. How envious the other acolytes will be, if he tells them he’s seen Karasuno’s Festival of Return with his own eyes. Well then, if he is to have a good story, he _must_ brave the loud sounds and bright lights to see the festival from the best place he can find, even if the city resembles a rearing monster and his knees are threatening to give way.

“Let’s go!” he gushes suddenly, pulling Yachi along as he clumsily attempts to shove his way into the crowd. It is difficult, and more than once, he’s rudely pushed out of the way.

“Hinata! Slow down!” Yachi yells from somewhere behind, tugging his hand. “We can’t get separated!”

But Hinata can’t slow down even if he tries. The deeper into the crowd he gets, the louder the sounds become. He can hear the steady beating of large festival drums, and taste the heady scent of smoked meat and _sake_ in the air. The crowd is cheering and chanting unfamiliar songs of merriment, and his head is spinning like the red umbrellas of the _kabuki_ dancers on a distant stage. The excitement holds him captive, growing ever larger the closer he gets to the heart of the jubilee. It is impossible not to be swept up in its giddy rush. Hinata can feel himself smiling wide, his tongue moving to sing with the crowd.

Their jostling eventually brings them to the very front of the throng, where rows of city folk have split themselves into two, with a large gap in the middle, stretching out on both sides as far as the eye can perceive. It is clearly a pathway left clear for some sort of procession, and it is a struggle to stay within the horde and not be pushed right into the middle of the clear path. There is more shoving, and Hinata pulls Yachi close. It won’t do to lose each other now.

“It’s coming!” Yachi suddenly shouts, pointing to the left end of the wide path. “Lord Kageyama’s entourage!”

“Uuooooohhhhh!” is the only thing Hinata can say as he cranes his neck to breaking point for a glimpse. Ahh! Curse his height! Curse it! Behind them, the crowd goes wild, practically clambering over one another as they fight for a look.

The procession moves into sight, slow and grand. Hinata sees its very front, led by two fierce _Naginata_ (polearm) bearers on foot. One is a ferocious man with a shaven head, and the other is a muscular woman with a savage smile. They are garbed in full bamboo armour, glistening face paint and red brass helmets, gloriously terrifying and wildly valiant. They swing their weapons around with practiced ease, as if their monstrous blades are nothing but bales of corn.

“The Tanaka siblings!” someone cheers, their voice hoarse with fervor.

But Hinata doesn’t have time to gape. The next pair in the procession have come into sight - two figures on handsome horses - one slight of height, the other a giant of a man with hair tied back.

“Karasuno’s great swordsmith!” a man hollers, awe evident in his voice. “I hear he was once a _ronin_ who battled five tigers in the mountains with his bare hands!”

“He’s beheaded three men with a single slash of his _nodachi_!” another supplies. “No one challenges Steel-Handed Asahi and lives to tell the tale!”

Hinata doesn’t doubt it for a moment, judging by his sheer size and the hard lines on his face. His smaller companion, on the other hand, is surprisingly acrobatic, standing upright on the back of his horse and brandishing his spear with an odd cry of “Rolling Thunder!”. Hinata wonders what that can possibly mean, but the cheers and guffaws he elicits from the crowd are equal. Maybe he is really a clown from the _Noh_ theatre, rather than a full-fledged samurai.

As the procession grows closer, the next pair appear. The crowd grows surprisingly hushed, and gazes become focused on the next members of Karasuno’s noble family.

An open palanquin comes into sight, bearing two men in attire far finer than the most elaborate ceremonial robe they have back in the temple. Decked in sharp-winged blue kataginu and golden inner kimono with silver crane embroidery,  they carry a vastly different air from those before them - dignified, gracefully silent and indisputably powerful. They each have a sword at their waist, on opposite sides, equal in length and beauty. Their white ceremonial headbands stream in the wind, and their eyes bear resolutely ahead, as if nothing in the material world is of any consequence to them.

Hinata doesn’t need the hushed whispers around him to tell him who they are. So great is their glory, so celebrated their coming, even simple mountain folk like himself have heard their name. Lord Tsukishima and Lord Yamaguchi - Karasuno’s first and only complete Wielder pair, as perfectly matched as the moon and the stars. They are a living legend; a sight to behold. The city’s pride and honour, and their clan’s stronghold of hope. To see a real pair in person is to witness a miracle, for it takes nothing short of a miracle to find a partner for one’s matching blade in this vast land.

Old Ukai once told them that even meeting a complete Wielder duo will bring the beholder good fortune. Hinata wants to stare at them until he gathers a year’s worth of good luck, but their view is blocked by hordes of adoring cityfolk with the same desire, and he gets barely more than a short glance.

 

But he needn’t worry - the next palanquin is close behind. The vibe of the crowd shifts yet again, and even the most hushed of whispers cease. This palanquin is decked in gold and completely roofed, almost twice as large as the previous and ten times as ornate. Flying carved dragons embellished its exterior, intricately gilded in all manner of precious metal and red teak, while fine white silk curtains shield its occupant from the curious eyes of the public.

There is the sound of ruffling of thousands of kimono, and the strangest thing begins to happen.

Before Hinata’s bewildered eyes, every person, from wealthy merchants to the humblest of craftsmen start to lower their gazes and bend their knees, bowing so low their their foreheads almost press the ground. _What are they doing?_ He doesn’t quite respond in time and remains standing, looking frantically for a Yachi.

“Hinata! Kneel!” Yachi whispers at him in panic, already on her knees. “It’s the _Daimyo_!”

She tugs at his hakama, wildly gesturing for him to merge into the crowd. Hinata does it one second too late, for a terrifying moment, he is the only one standing, sticking out like a badly hammered nail.

“Long live Lord Kageyama!” the crowd chants, even as Hinata looks around distractedly for a space to hide. “May the Gods bless him for a thousand years!”

He tries to drop down as fast as he can, but he is in the very front row of the crowd, and there is no space for him to so much as crouch without intruding the cleared path. He tries to step back by force, and the sudden shift of a group of onlookers behind him causes him to lose his footing.

“Long live Lord Kageyama!” The chanting continues as Hinata dramatically pitches forward, the world moving at an agonizingly slow pace around him.

His cheek grazes hard ground with terrible stinging pain. The rest of him comes crashing down right after like wooden houses in caught in an earthquake. He feels his bony elbows and knees scrape the stone floor. It hurts so much that a yell works its way out of his throat, only to be stopped by his terrified mind a moment too late.

The entire procession halts, and Hinata realizes he in very centre of the path, sprawled out right before the _very_ ruler of Karasuno city. His wooden kururibako bag has split right open with the impact of the fall, sending all its contents scattered over the floor like a spilled bag of rice.

There is not a single pair of eyes that are not on him, and the quiet is complete except for the distant cawing of crows. Hinata’s breath is as still as the silence, and his mind seems to have taken leave of his skull. The soundlessness becomes a deafening ringing as every single muscle in his body turns into stone. When he does manage to turn around, he sees nothing but Yachi’s open-mouthed, deathly pale face. The onlookers seem to recede with every passing second, as if no one wants to be part of the fate which will shortly befall him.

If course they wouldn’t.

Lord Kageyama’s palanquin bearers look at him as if he were an odd forest _youkai_ , their eyes incredulous and deadly. The samurai in the procession turn around, their weapons and armour clanging like death chimes. Whispers finally begin, and Hinata prepares himself to be flattened alive by the golden vehicle - hopefully that would kill him before he drops dead of shock. And still, his limbs are not moving, try as he might to convince them to carry him far away...far away to the ends of the Earth if need be.

The rustling of fabric makes him blink.

The silk curtains begin to stir, and with a rough tug, they part to reveal a tall shadow. Hinata barely catches a glimpse of the man before the crowds begin to plaster their faces to the ground.

But all Hinata can do is stare up.

“What is this disturbance?” a voice demands. It is haughty, dry and low, full of a manner of authority that can only be a birthright. How many lives have been taken and spared with a single word from this man? The city clearly knows, and is deathly mute as he descends his seat, his gold sandals touching the dirty ground in a way that almost looks like a shame. Hinata feels a frigid sensation down his back and an involuntary shiver about his shoulders. There’s a ball of deep fear lodged in his throat, growing ever larger and threatening to choke him.

Whoever this man is, he is born to rule.

“A peasant has fallen into your path, my lord,” a guard replies. “Should I behead this disrespectful vermin?”

There is no time for Hinata to understand what it means before a terrified yelp is heard from the direction of the crowd. Hinata knows that voice.

It’s - it’s Yachi! What is she -

“Have mercy, Your Highness!” she screams before anyone can stop her. Pushing her way out of the crowd, she throws herself onto the ground beside him, her voice shaking like a crinkled autumn leaf, her eyes filled with terror. He has never seen her like this, not even when Old Ukai caught them painting funny faces on stone Buddha statues.

“Yachi-” Hinata begins, only mildly surprised that he still has a voice. He tries to push her away, back into the crowd, but she doesn’t budge.

She can’t stay here. He doesn’t quite know what is going on, but he knows there is danger. Big danger, because they are in big trouble with noble Samurai.

 _Yachi! Please, Yachi!_ Hinata begs silently, his hands gripping her arm. _Go. Go. GO!_

“Please! Please spare him, my lord! My brother is ignorant, he is clumsy and he -”

She never gets to finish. The guard loses his patience and draws his sword with a horrifying ring of metal, raising it above his head, aimed at Yachi. She opens her mouth in a silent scream, but the blow never gets to fall either, because Lord Kageyama from the palanquin is faster. With a haughty sweep of his arm, he shoves Yachi to the side, turning his back to her as she crashes into the ground with an agonized scream. It is so rough, so unnecessarily brutal that the crowd gasps and Hinata’s vision flashes white. The fall sends her skidding across the stone floor, so violently that it tears her kimono at the shoulder. He knows that scream - it’s the same scream she made when she lost her footing and rolled down the mountainside as a child, breaking her shin cleanly.

And yet, without a single glance, Lord Kageyama clambers back into his palanquin, dignified and unperturbed, as if he has merely swatted at a fly. In the corner of his vision, Yachi bites her pale lips in an attempt not to whimper, and Hinata feels a dangerous, black fire looming within his belly.

If he has more time to think, more time to take stock of the situation, he might have responded very differently. But he doesn’t think - doesn’t think enough - and lets his burning vision take over his mind.

“Hey.”

He speaks before he knows his lips have moved, and the dark emotion continues to uncoil within him, rapid as a striking viper. _He has hurt Yachi. Yachi is in pain. Yachi has been thrown onto the ground, and she is bleeding._

It suddenly doesn’t matter if the man before him is the Daimyo lord of a great city, or even a God himself. _He has hurt Yachi._

_And he cannot be forgiven._

“Stop right there, you bastard,” he growled, forgetting the situation, forgetting the world. The crowd is frothing at the mouth with shock now, and no eyelid is batted as the tall figure of Lord Kageyama turns around.

For the first time, Hinata sees the Daimyo’s face. Eyes dark as night, treacherous hostility roiling like a thunderstorm in their depths. A nose as tall and noble as his lineage, mouth as fierce as an eagle, skin pale as the moon in a black sky. Sleek ebony hair, short and tidy, framing an expression which spelled certain doom.  

“You...” Lord Kageyama began, raising a hand to the hilt of his sword. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness, Hinata registers that he should be afraid. But at this moment, he is too far gone to understand.

“Who do you think you are?” he counters, already knowing that these words will end him in the ugliest way possible, but strangely unafraid. “Does being a Samurai, an _oh-so-great_ wielder give you the right to hurt my sister? You’re just a pathetic heir, and you’ve got the guts of a sewer rat. You’re a daimyo only because you were born into it!”

For a moment, Lord Kageyama seems to have stilled his breathing, and his eyes grow rapidly darker. By now, the crowd has given them such a wide berth, you could fit another ten palanquins across the path.

“What did you say, you low-life scum -”

“No wonder the Gods never gave you a partner!” Hinata declares, snarling like a diseased dog, anger hazing his mind so completely he can barely hear himself. He raises a bold, accusing finger, pointing it straight at Lord Kageyama’s delirious face. “You don’t deserve one!”

It is extremely strange, because a moment before the words left his lips, they sounded apt in his mind. They played rapidly in his head seconds before they were out of his mouth, and he heard them loud and clear. He has consciously chosen to say them, consequences be damned.

Yet now, barely a moment after, he realizes that they have been an unpardonable, mortal mistake.

_What...has he done?_

He knows it’s too late. He has offended a samurai, a Daimyo lord at that. He has stood in their path and pointed his finger at them. He has given the worst possible insult to a Wielder, so unforgivable that death would be a joke of a punishment.

And as he watches Lord Kageyama draw his sword, the hiss of metal against wood, the swish of the blade through the air, Hinata realizes...far too late...

...that he’ll never return to tell Old Ukai about the wondrous Karasuno city.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where Kageyama is super chill at the beginning of the chapter and really not chill by the end of it. He needs anger management counselling, I swear.
> 
> Sorry for the spam of Japanese words and the (dumb bracket translations). I’m trying too hard to make it sound like I know some history lol. Sorry if some things are inaccurate, I’m new to both Haikyuu and feudal Japan. If you’ve liked this chapter, do leave a comment or talk to me on tumblr (http://keyade.tumblr.com)! I've given so many clues, COME TELL ME YOUR SPECULATIONS :D


	2. One Opportunity, One Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first bit of this chapter plunges you into the very abstract memories of a sword. It’s meant to be disorienting and confusing so that it feels realistic :)

Hinata closes his eyes. He doesn’t really want his hand to come up to shield his face, as if it were a good-enough barrier against the well-honed blade, as if he were afraid. What good would it do? Magnificent katana like one of the Twelve Twins are made to cut through seven corpses piled on sand, to cleave a lotus bloom drifting downstream in a river cleanly in twain, to evenly split a single strand of hair. It will merely cut through his hand before it slices his neck, further mutilating him in death. Yachi’s scream seems to sound from the distance, which is strange, because she is right beside him.

  _His first city is also his last._ What a pity, he’s just been thinking about seeing so many more.

 Inevitably, the blade finishes its arch and reaches his hand. Hinata braces himself for a searing pain as he loses a few digits, but all he feels is blunt impact and the tangy cold of metal.

 Eh?

  _EH?!_

 He doesn’t realize how tightly his eyes are shut until he tries to peel them open. He chances only a brief glimpse at the Daimyo, expecting to see maniac rage. But all that’s written on the samurai lord’s face is intense irritation.

 “Get out of my sight,” he hisses, pressing his blade harder into Hinata’s hand as he steps aggressively forward.

  _But...ah!_ It’s the blunt edge of the blade! Hinata might have felt like an idiot if he isn’t so stupefied. He stands with his jaw half-slack, his hands still raised and his body like stone. He can’t move it even if he tries.

 “Oi, dumbass!” the Daimyo snarls, eliciting jitters of alarm from people all around. But Hinata doesn’t quite hear it - his ears feel like they’re filling with water. His vision is spotted with black and dancing like dying embers, and he doesn’t quite know which emotion is is causing this - disbelief or relief.

 The Daimyo had just meant to push him away. That’s all.

 “Did you think I was going to kill you? Do you want me to, huh? Move it before I change my mind, you little peasant. Are you deaf? Are you even...hey...h-hey! Hey!!”

 If this is a reaction to relief, it must be getting a little excessive. Hinata’s knees have turned into liquid, but his head is as heavy as iron. His hand is stinging - perhaps the blade has scratched him, after all? But apart from that, he can’t feel his arms or feet, and his lungs are frozen in time. He’s seeing many many images of everything, and the red lanterns overhead are casting strange spinning shadows. The sun seems to have just set, but he can still see many suns in the sky.

  _That’s funny,_ he thinks, but his head feels weightless and he can’t seem to hold on to any thought.

 “Suga!” he hears a new voice call. It is loud and surprisingly close to his ears. Hinata feels himself tip over, and crumbling onto the cold, dirt-riddled stone path. His head must have hit the ground, but he feels only the impact and not the pain. It is an odd sensation.  

“What -” Hinata hears the Daimyo begin, and vaguely sees the man’s sullen, perplexed face looming over his own. The Daimyo’s frown deepens, but there is visible shock on his face as he concludes,”The kid’s passed out!”

 _I’m not a kid and I haven’t passed out_ , Hinata wants to say, but his tongue has gone numb. He wonders how he’s still able to wonder what on earth has happened to him, when he can’t even seem to stand. His hand, where the lord’s sword has touched him, is throbbing with unexpected heat.

**And it begins.**

Sometime, very much later, Hinata will remember this moment with much embarrassment - him lying on the ground in a crowded city-center, body completely slack, his eyes and mouth half open like a man who had a few cups of _sake_ too many, while the entire town looks upon him with their eyes like wine saucers. But he will also remember what he sees, because it is something he must never see again, lest he be crushed under its weight.

He can’t quite say that he has fainted - it feels as if he is caught between waking and dreaming - unable to summon enough energy to push himself fully into either. He sees black, deep as the bottom of a lake, dark as an eternal night. A few sparks of red light jump at intervals, accompanied with the sound of clanging hammer falls. It is clear in his ears, far clearer than the alarmed shouting all around him, far clearer than the frenzied movement of the crowd around him. The sparks grow lighter and more frequent, until a bright light burns his vision and arrests his entire consciousness.

 _It is done_ , he hears. _A Left blade to match the Right._

His body seizes in agony as a wave of heat washes over him, hot enough to melt the skin right off his bones. A second later he is so cold that he feels his joints crack. Surely, he must have died, and yet he feels...pain. It doesn’t begin to describe what he is feeling - because if this is pain, nothing he’s ever felt before can ever be considered pain, not even the time he tripped while carrying boiling water up the temple steps and upsets it all over his arms and thighs. This pain is a destroying pain - and it _hurts_. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts IT HURTS! IT HURTS!!

It is as if he is ripped open alive and liquid fire poured into his chest. He feels a scream leave his throat - and then a series of crazed, voice-cracking screams, but he can’t hear any of them. It is as if he has been thrown into molten iron, and a bare moment later, into ice.

It takes a second for him to realize that’s _just_ what it is. _The forging of a sword_ , his mind suddenly supplies. _A swordsmith completing his masterpiece. Running it through the forging fires one last time, before quenching it in ice._

Ah! He suddenly understands. He is a sword, a blade being forged. He is no longer himself, an acolyte from a distant shrine. He is a katana, a length of deadly metal. He’s remembering the day he was born, out of the forge fires of a smith’s workshop along the busiest of Edo’s districts. He hears the final blessings of his creator, bidding him to choose his masters wisely and serve them to the end of each of their times, before sheathing him in a dark scabbard and bringing him into the world.

 _Please, please, please._ The pain is in his head, his heart, his hands and his feet, his everything. And nothing, there is nothing he wants but release. He must die now, right now, or the pain will be etched in his soul forever.

PLEASE LET ME DIE. But he can’t possibly die. He isn’t human or animal. He is a weapon, a katana to be mastered by a samurai. He doesn’t have a life, only a command to be loyal - ever loyal to his master.

The bizarre waking dream continues. He sees a series of wide-open eyes. Some filled with bone-breaking fear, others with the maniac resignation of sacrifice. The screams in his head meld into one, and he’s not quite sure which are his own. He sees men and women draw their last breaths, some gasping, some deep and resolute, and he breathes together with them. He feels the friction of hands scarred with battle-scars as he is passed from one master to the next, and the dampness of every tear falling upon his ageless, gleaming surface. He sees the passing of every soul as they ascend from this world to the next, finally released from the agony of living.

He sees every life he’s snatched away and tastes every stream of blood he’s broken. It is as if he’s died a thousand times, only to be revived to die a thousand times more. And in each death he feels the same pain - over and over again until it becomes ache - the cold and final sting of metal before his breath is ripped out of his throat. Ah, the life of a sword is a lot more graceless than one would imagine.

But he is not a sword! He is Hinata! He is a mere human...and he....

His thoughts are lost in endless space, and he grasps around frantically for something...anything to hold on to. Where is he? Is he awake or asleep? Dead or alive? Human or sword? The nothingness is terrifying and he can’t breathe, but his body is too sluggish to fight and he is sinking.

Is this the end?

Suddenly, he feels a tug at the edges of his fading consciousness. He realizes he’s been feeling it all along, but has been too overwhelmed to notice. It feels like a hand leading him out of the fire, a rope to pull him out of deep water. He grasps it, but his strength is failing.

_YOU DUMBASS! Hold on! If you let go now, I will mince you._

The voice in his head is loud and rude, and feels oddly familiar - like someone he met a very short while ago but suddenly can’t quite remember. The Other’s words ring in his head, alien but strangely recognizable, like a distant memory from a dream almost forgotten. Slowly but surely, he is being led out of agony. By someone who has already been in this dark land of memories before, by someone who has seen what he saw. He should be the one who is relieved, but the voice he hears seems infinitely more relieved.

 _The Other,_ Hinata says to himself, his mind strangely accepting of the unknown foreign presence. As if the Other has been a part of him since the day he was born, like an imaginary friend from a time beyond recollection. Some one to protect, someone to be protected by, someone who complete the incomplete. 

And as he lets the Other lead him out of the darkness, his body unwinds from the agony it had previously suffered. The Other’s presence is inexplicably comforting, like fire from a hearth in winter, and he lets himself be lulled into a deep sleep. He hears one last thought from the Other, so distant and so soft that he is not sure if he’s imagining it.

_Where have you been all this while?_

***

Hinata wakes feeling like he’d been hit in the head by the club they use to sound their shrine’s morning gong. The thick brass one with a low reverberation that weighs more a horse.

Sunlight has never felt like such an enemy to his eyes, and his throat feels like the time he swallowed five _wasabi_ leaves in one mouthful for fun. His spine is so stiff and there’s a throbbing ache at the back of his head - has he hit it on something. 

“M-my L-lord! I’m sorry! I’m terribly sorry! W-we’ll never appear in your path again, I s-swear to - “

Is that Yachi’s voice he hears? What is Yachi doing here, in the boy’s corner? But wait! This...this isn’t the room he shares with the rest of the shrine boys! Where is this place?

“Calm down, young lady -”

“D-don’t execute us! H-hinata and I...we’re j-just shrine s-servants, we stepped out of l-line...s-s-sorry -”

“As I said, you don’t have to -”

“I b-beg of you! Your H-honourable -”

“Young Lady! Would you listen for a minute!" 

Silence from Yachi. Hinata’s hairs stand on edge and with effort, he pushes himself into a sitting position. Smooth velvet rubs against his skin as he moves, and he sees expensive embroidered silk bedcovers slide away from his body. He almost topples over.

_Where IS this place? What on earth is going on?_

He blinks a few times and rubs his sore eyes. He is in a room of sorts, not quite large but not tiny either. It is sparsely furnished but artfully designed, with expensive looking, delicately knit tatami beneath his toes and fine tea-green paper on the walls. The red teak window is circular and elegant, but view of the outside is misted over with almost-transparent rice paper.True to its zen-style design, there is no decoration in the room apart from a single gold clay vase and a scroll on the wall with dancing calligraphy.

It reads: _ichi go, ichi e_. One opportunity, one encounter.

But Hinata’s mind is reeling with things other than cryptic poetic text. The room is so clean, and much grander than anything Hinata had ever seen. He backs away towards the shoji doors as if the immaculate room would swallow him whole for being a lowly shrine boy far undeserving of such finery. _How_ did he end up here?

“Good,” he hears another unfamiliar male voice sigh. Yachi is speaking with two strangers! The second man’s voice muffled by distance, but Hinata can make out his words.

“First, nobody is executing anyone. We are Samurai, not hard-headed brutes.”

Yachi gives an apologetic, subdued squeal.

“And second,” the voice continues, in a gentler tone. “You and your brother must be tired from your travels. Please accept our offer to take rest here. I promise, no harm will come to you.”

“B-but...” Yachi stammers. “H-how can we, my Lord? This is a mansion fit for samurai, and we are unworthy guests."

The unknown samurai lord chuckles. “As the scholar Takeda Ittetsu writes: “No servant of the gods is beneath a man of the sword.” You are not unworthy, young lady. And besides...there is some business we would like to discuss with your brother.”

 _M-me?_ Hinata thinks. ME?

Oh no, is he in trouble? What would fancy Samurai want with him? He’s done something terrible again, hasn’t he? Hinata scrunches his nose in deep thought and racks through his memories, trying hard to fill the void caused by his unconsciousness a while ago. He’d just entered Karasuno with Yachi...right? He’s in a new city, and he had just arrived - no, he arrived near dusk, but judging from the light streaming in from the paper-frosted window, it is early morning. Strange...he remembers a festival, a parade to celebrate the return of some pompous lord -

Oh. OH.

It comes back all of a sudden. He’d fallen into the path of a samurai - the Daimyo with a sour face, no less! He’d refused to leave quietly, and Yachi was shoved away, and the Daimyo drew his sword...and...and...

His throat drops to his stomach, and his stomach to the floor. By gods. He remembers, but he wishes he hasn’t. He is in deep, deep, DEEP trouble. He has gravely insulted the Karasuno clan, and they have captured him and Yachi - the two aberrant peasants. He is done for, certainly and completely.

But this time, Yachi will NOT pay for it. 

Hinata bursts out of the shoji doors, almost skidding on the smooth wooden floor. The corridor is empty, but he runs towards the direction of Yachi’s voice, stopping abruptly before the door adjacent to his. He tumbles into the room, his eyes tightly shut and his palms clammy as he draws a deep breath.

...and suddenly has not a clue what to say. His brain, only just so full of loud thoughts, is suddenly as empty as a dried well.

Oh no oh no oh no _oh no_. He’s just made it worse, hasn’t he? Instinctively, his eyes fly open and he wishes they haven’t, because he is now faced with a room full of finely dressed men and one flabbergasted Yachi. He’d expected only two strangers, but there are...oh goodness, _ten_. He can tell from their clothing and the swords at their waists that they are all samurai. He opens and closes his mouth a few times like a frothing carp, and he wonders if he is frothing as well.

The silence is painful as he stares at the men, and they stare back in kind, their hands half raised in gestures, their mouths ajar. One of them - a stern looking man with short-cropped black hair and strong jaw - adjusts his position and clears his throat. Hinata braces himself to be hollered at, but the man simply turns around to his companions.

“What are you waiting for, you disrespectful fools,” he says, his voice sharp but calm. “Bow.” His words are scathing but he says them with no menace, as if they are harmless everyday remarks.

But there is a sudden rustling of expensive fabric as everyone in the room scurries to obey. _Eh?_ Hinata thinks, his mind blanker than ever and his panic rising. And before his very eyes, he sees the strangest of sights - ten fully garbed samurai lowering their hands and foreheads to the ground, bowing low and still as pebbles in a pond. Hinata leaps back in fright and spins around. Did the Daimyo appear behind him? Oh no, just when he is thinking that he can’t possibly get into greater trouble...

...except there is _no one at all_ behind him. He looks forward again, and the samurai are still facing the ground. All except for the two in the very front, who are simply kneeling with their hands on their knees, their heads lowered and their eyes downcast. One of them is the stern-faced man who had just spoken.

It is deathly quiet, and they are all facing Hinata.

 _W-what...what is this?_ Why on earth are they bowing? Hinata knows that he should probably drop down to his hands and knees too for whatever reason, but he can’t bring himself to move. What can possibly be the matter with these men?!

“You shouldn’t be up this early, my Lord,” another samurai says. His hair is a curious shade of silver, and even with his head bowed, Hinata can see a birthmark mole in the corner of his right eye. His voice is as calm as the first man’s, but Hinata can hear a strange hint of a smile in it. Now that he is noticing it, the stern-faced man is smiling too, his eyes sparking in a manner that bespoke great joy.

For whatever reason, these samurai are acting as if they had just been given bags of gold. Or fine new horses...or...whatever Samurais fancy.

“Let me escort you back to your room. You need more rest after that encounter,” the silver haired man continues, taking liberty to rise from his bow. He looks directly at Hinata, one hand stretched out as if to touch his shoulder, but Hinata jumps back.

“Y-you’re bowing t-to me?!’ he suddenly realizes, scuttling a few steps away. He suddenly remembers Yachi and stares at her for an answer, but Yachi is just as wide eyed.  

“W-what - who...but I’m...I’m just -”

“It must all be quite new to you, my Lord,” the man says, still smiling and calm as ever, as if Hinata was an old friend he had known forever, and not a random shrine boy who had _somehow_ ended up within a samurai settlement.

“My L-lord?” Hinata echos, his voice a few pitches higher than usual. “Y-you’ve got it wrong, S-sir. I’m not t-the...I’m really just a-”

“We know who you are,” the stern faced man says, chuckling. _Chuckling_. “And I dare say, for the first time in many futile years, we’ve finally _not_ gotten it wrong. You really are the one.”

There is a look of rapt wonder on his face as he says it, and together with the strange but very palpable joy in the room, Hinata feels as if he is a piece of precious rare jade on display. Yachi makes an odd gurgle - the kind she makes when she is very astonished.

“But if it makes you more comfortable, we can address you by name,” the silver haired man concedes, looking as if he’s trying hard not to giggle. “You’re called “Hinata”, am I right?”

“Y-yes,” Hinata stammers, his brows furrowing deep and his heart hammering.

“Nothing else? No second name, no title? Just Hinata?”

“J-just Hinata.” Of course. He is just a shrine servant. Why would he have a need for more than one name?

“Well then. You will be called Hinata _Shouyou_ from this day. “Shouyou” being the name of your blade. All its Wielders have added its name to their own, and the same is expected of you.”

“W-what?” Hinata splutters. As if this situation could get any more disorienting. Did they just change his name? What is all this...wielder...nonsense? Are these samurais really a group of madmen? How did he end up here, with them?

“It’s the honorific title for Wielders,” the man explains, only succeeding in making it even more bewildering. “ _Tobio_ is the name of Lord Kageyama’s right-handed sword, so his name is now Kageyama Tobio. His brother, Oikawa, was bonded to the left-handed sword _Tooru_ , so he was called Oikawa Tooru when he was alive. The left-handed sword that chose you is called _Shouyou_ \- Feathers in the Sun. It is a beautiful name, and a matching blade to _Tobio_. I would be glad to call it mine, if I were you.”

But to Hinata, his words are no more than a massive deluge of incomprehensible information, hitting him in the face and washing him away like an enormous wave from the sea. The silver-haired man is grinning, as if he knows _exactly_ how confusing it all is to Hinata, and is delighting in it. What _is_ he talking about? These names...what do they have to do with him? He is a temple boy, for goodness -

Wait. WAIT.

“I’m a Wielder?!!” Hinata shrieks, and would have lost his footing again if he’d not grabbed the door in the last moment.

“Of course you are,” the stern-faced man replies, grinning ever wider. “Bonded to the left-handed blade of our finest Pair, no less.’

It...it can’t be. He is dreaming. He is dreaming the strangest, most far-fetched, most outlandish dream in his life, and he needs to rouse himself immediately. He’ll wake up in his pallet in the temple, and he will see Yachi bustling around, making breakfast for him and his brothers. This isn’t real. It cannot be.

“Look at your palm, Hinata,’ the man suggests.

Hinata does, and this time, his knees successfully buckle and send him back onto the floor with a thud. His heart lurches in fright and beats painfully. There is a mark on his hand. _A mark._ A black mark just below the skin, clear as day and dark as night, something that had _never_ been there before. It has an odd shape...it seems...like a feather of sorts.

“That’s the mark only Wielders of _Shouyou_ bear,” the man explains. “And now, it’s master is you.”

Hinata’s eyes cannot leave the mark, now that he has seen it. He doesn’t need to rub it against his clothes to know that it will never go away. It is like a stain of Narra bark ink, unerasable, indelible. He can feel his pulse against the shape, beating in time with his bewildered breaths and his reeling mind.

 _It is a crow’s feather_ , he realizes. How fitting for Karasuno, the city which gave the mark to him.

Hinata feels the silver-haired samurai pat his head, and he looks up to kind grey eyes.

“Welcome to the Karasuno Clan, Hinata Shouyou. We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sugamama smothers Hinata in motherly love. And Daichi tries not to laugh (too hard). Poor Hinata is so confused lol. Btw, thanks so much for the amazing feedback on ch 1!! Gosh I’m so inspired to write now. Please do leave your thoughts on this chapter too, your comments really mean the world to me! >3


	3. Luck Exists in the Leftovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events which occurred before Hinata wakes.

**Note:** Before we start this chapter, I drew Daichi and Suga from this story LOL. (Watercolour on brown paper)

I know it’s a bit early for art, but if you want to draw some, just tag “my blade for your fortitude” or "MBFYF" on tumblr and I’ll see it! Or you can drop me a message on my art blog: http://keyade.tumblr.com :)

Now for the chapter...

 

**Chapter 3: Luck Exists in the Leftovers**

 

Kageyama sits on the _zabuton_ , his back stiff as a taut bowstring, his fisted hands damp with tension. Thrice he considers getting up and leaving the room as quickly as possible, _before the kid rouses_ , and twice he is stopped by Suga, who seems to know just when to come by to catch him losing his nerve. (Oh blast it.) The last time, he halts just before he steps out of the door, stopped by a unremarkable flash of black in the corner of his eye. There is a mark...a black feather against flushed skin of the boy’s upturned hand.

 _Someone else’s_ hand.

It’s _his_ mark, a mark given to him by the blade _Tobio_ at first touch, a stain of responsibility he’d always... _always_ worn alone. He’d been twelve summers old then, too young to hold up the honour of the title ‘Wielder’, too old to claim childish ignorance. It is a mark that distinguished him from the other _wakashu_ (young samurai in training) during bamboo sword practices, a mark that earned him distant stares of admiration from his peers but no friendship. He remembers raising his bamboo sword in a challenge for practice one morning, and the horror of finding no one there to meet it.

 _We are no longer the same_ , his childhood river-fishing and tree-climbing companions had said, eyes averted, when he asked. _You are a Wielder now, a son of our clan’s leading household. We are the sons of retainers._ And sometimes when he dreams, Kageyama still hears those words and still feels his heart clench. He knew then, that to be a Wielder chosen by the divine, he may no longer find solace in something so worldly as childhood companionship.

And his brother, his oh-so-charismatic and effortlessly gregarious brother, wasn’t quite free of the curse of isolation the mark brought. When he thought there was no one to see him, Oikawa had been tenuously alone, sitting in the darkness of his room for hours with the blade _Tooru_ glinting in his graceful and gifted hands, blankly looking at his reflection on the flawless metal as he contemplates the ever shortening remainder of his time. Kageyama had watched him from the crack in the screen-door, then looking at his own hand and thinking how odd it is, that a mark meant to promise a lifelong companion would bring its wearer nothing but uneasy solitude.

Ah, when unrivaled power is at stake, what men would pay for even the most obscure chance. Such is the courageous folly and prideful impulse of a samurai.

And just once in a hundred...maybe a thousand instances, one would win the steep gamble to see his mark on another’s palm. And how unforeseeable its odds and outcomes are. Oikawa had lost against all expectations, with his life as forfeit. Perhaps it is entertainment to the gods that Yamaguchi, whom all the townsfolk believed had been chosen by mistake, had astoundingly, _impossibly_ won.

And now, so has Kageyama.

What...what an unusual dream this is, one that is finally not a nightmare, but impossible to rouse from, tried as he has for the past hours. No, it is a nightmare after all, because when he does wake, the sensation of hollowness - of what could have been - would surely ache deeper than the dreams where his time is up and he drives the blade _Tobio_ into his stomach. But like a stranded seaman who knows well that drinking from the ocean will be his doom, Kageyama drinks in this vivid dream, relishing while he can in all that is too good to be true. 

After all, how can it _possibly_ be real? How can it?

 _How can he have found the Other_?

But the thought buzzes straight through his head and plummets into his heart, signalling it to lurch in the most dizzying manner. His ears are muffled with disbelief, his head is hazy and he can’t seem to find his footing, as if the very ground beneath him is spinning with the force of his incredulity.He realizes that the mark on his hand own is tingling and distractedly clenches and unclenches it, though it is not an unpleasant sensation. His throat is tight and his mouth dry, but his chest is light and all of a sudden he can breathe again, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he has been holding all these years. There’s a distantly familiar sensation rising from his stomach, and he realizes after a moment’s pause that it is his body’s attempt to form...why, to form a _smile._  

Perhaps... _just perhaps_ , this is real. By the valleys of Iya and the tides of Lake Biwa, he is part of a wielder pair.

_A complete wielder pair!_

He’s a survivor of a hopeless game of odds, an embodiment of a miracle of a thousand years. Who’d have thought that Suga would be right afterall? _Nokorimono no wa fuku ga aru_. Luck exists in the leftovers. And who’d have thought that after they scoured the land for every eligible left-handed young man, there would be one to come forth so suddenly from the residue, like an out-of-season burst of peach blossoms at the end of a long dry spell.  

And for the fiftieth time, Kageyama sternly contemplates the boy whom he’d been standing vigil over the entire night.

He’s been up for hours waiting for this strange little peasant to rouse, furrowing his brows in scepticism every time the boy turns in his sleep, or mumbles a few indecipherable words in his crass mountainside accent. (Is that where he’s from?) He is dressed in the the garb of a minor _Shinto_ acolyte, his _hakama_ made of fabric cruder than the cloth on Kageyama’s horse saddle. His face is young and boyish - no older than sixteen, perhaps - bearing the dirt smears of a long journey.  

He must be...younger than Kageyama, then? Has he been travelling before this? Where did he come from? Somewhere so far from Karasuno, perhaps, that even Daichi hadn’t been there?

Why did he come here?  

But most of all, Kageyama’s eyes and questions are inexplicably drawn to that shock of orange hair, orange as the leaves of a _momoji_ tree. It is wild and voluminous and sprouts in every direction possible like a fern in the crook of a willow...so much, Kageyama thinks while stifling a snort, like the boy himself. Loud, unmanageable and larger than life...and flaming bright as the midday sun. How can anyone possibly have hair like this?

If Kageyama ever dared imagine his Other, in the days when he was younger and more carefree, he’d have imagined someone who is a mirror of himself. Serious, brooding and cultivated - merciless on the battlefield and stoic anywhere else. He may have even imagined someone like Oikawa - a flirtatious dandy from a Samurai household matching Karasuno in wealth and power, skilled in both the ways of the sword and tea parties. But never - not in his wildest dreams - someone like _this boy_ , a completely accidental stranger from an unknown place far from here, with the most _bizarre_ hair and a status so far beneath his own it has surely become a joke of the townsfolk. If his fate were a _Karuta_ game, Kageyama has just been dealt the wildest card of the deck.

Why, oh why by the gods did _Shouyou_ choose this kid? Is he even civilized? Is he literate? Surely, a mountain bumpkin like him would know nothing of the samurai world, Kageyama’s world, the Karasuno clan’s world. How are they going to teach him anything at all, much less the delicate art of mastering a legendary sword?  

And if this isn’t a dream, is it an accident? 

The thought alone sends a string of cold dread down Kageyama’s spine. He can barely envision a return to the endless days of disappointed waiting. Even if fate would deal him a monkey, he would gladly accept.

There is a loud, deep inhale of breath, the mark of a sleeper about to rouse. _Finally_ , Kageyama thinks, preparing to speak the words he’d been reciting a hundred times in his head. But rather than go closer to the waking boy, his feet leap up on their own accord and carry him straight out of the door, faster than he’d have thought possible. His hands scurry to slide the doors shut behind him, clumsy but silent, while his heart is louder than a festival drum. Quite uncontrollably, he makes straight for the stairwell, his breaths rapid and anxious, as if the air has suddenly gone thin.

_W-why did he do that?!_

He is supposed to be in the room! To greet the new Wielder when he rouses, as is only proper! Daichi and Suga had specially bade him to with firmer-than-usual voices, and even without their instructions, Kageyama knows the customs well. The earlier-chosen must always be the first to welcome the later-chosen before the other samurai of the house. He must wait in vigil and fast, abstaining from sleep, food and drink for as long as it takes until the new Wielder wakes from his _muchuu_ (trance-like state induced by a sword’s memories). It is the first and most significant declaration of complete devotion, respect and brotherhood for a life-long partner, one of many in a series of rituals he must soon undergo.

He must go back in. He must. _He must!_ He’s yearned for this moment all his life - the moment to present the blade _Shouyou_ to a long-awaited partner with his own hands. So why aren’t his feet heeding his call, why is his usual stoic and unaffected disposition failing him now?

The boy is just a peasant! A simple, _lowly_ shrine servant from an utterly insignificant place. Kageyama is a Daimyo, with no man above him but the Shogun himself. He’d even the power to lop off the boy’s head, had he wanted to back in the procession.

 _So what is wrong with him?_ He is truly acting like Asahi-san today. WHAT IS HE DOING, hiding in the shadows like a petrified rabbit? Where has all his courage gone? Where is the resolve and unwavering fortitude of a leader of a great clan?

 _Go, go back in!_ his mind screams. He can’t afford to wait any longer, or someone else have to step in and take his chance to perform the symbolic greeting. But it is as if the heels of his feet are planted to the ground, and budging them required the strength of ten bulls. In the distance, Daichi and Suga seem to be having a discussion with the peasant’s jittery female companion, but he can’t make out the words over the clamour of his stuttering heartbeats.

Kageyama closes his eyes and draws a breath that reaches his stomach, shutting out the world as he steps forward.

Only to halt in his steps as he sees a flash of orange dart right out of the room, a force of raw energy that almost collides straight into him. Very unlike his usual coordinated self, Kageyama falls backwards, completely losing his footing on the polished oak floor and landing in a graceless heap of limbs.

 _Urghhh!!_ he curses, as his tailbone takes the sharp impact. Is this a sort of vindication for making the peasant fall earlier??! But the boy hasn’t even seen him at all, and thank the gods, neither has anyone else. Quite incredulously, Kageyama watches with his mouth ajar as the orange-haired deviant makes his wild and impossibly quick way straight to the adjourning door...

...and straight into the room where Daichi and Suga are conversing.

There it goes, Kageyama thinks, chest sinking dreadfully as he watches the boy’s eyes land on the occupants of the room, and not _him_ , as it should have been. He hears the ruffling of fabric of dozens of men as they give _his_ Other the First Bow.

He has failed. At the very first ritual, _the simplest and most important._

His very first duty as a Wielder, one he’d been rehearsing for _years_ in preparation for this day, has been thrown into shambles by...by himself. He wants to swear all the curses that Tanaka knows, he wants _drive his head into a stone wall_.

Tsukishima is in that room, isn’t he? That _bastard_ , he’s probably smirking as widely as his sly face will allow. He’ll never, _ever_ let Kageyama live this down, not for as long as both their wretched lives will last.

Kageyama remembers watching from the outside as Yamaguchi successfully (though very, very nervously) completes his first bow to Tsukishima, presenting him with the beautiful jade-infused family heirloom that is the blade _Kei_ , his hands shaking harder than the standing lock of hair on his head. And despite all the sweating and stuttering and almost-tripping, it was a glorious sight to behold, a truly remarkable occasion resembling the stuff of legends. Kageyama remembers wondering why on earth Yamaguchi would be so panicked, when he was a high-ranking samurai of noble lineage, and Tsukishima was a mere servant from the Nekoma household. But now he’s beginning to understand - birth and heritage have little significance between blade partners. The sheer shock and overwhelming astonishment of encountering one’s Other for the first time enough to make even the Shogun balk.

But overturned water does not return to the cup, and now, there is not much he can do but to attempt to finish what he’d lost his nerve to start. Stiffly, he makes his way to the room, waiting outside for a chance to interrupt that would earn him the fewest sniggers. The kid is standing at the doorway, logged in between two sliding panels, obviously too engrossed in what Daichi and Suga have to say to notice Kageyama’s approach.

“...look at your palm. That’s the mark only Wielders of _Shouyou_ bear.” Daichi’s voice travels through the half-open doors. There is a hint of bone-deep weariness beneath composed delight, and Kageyama wonders if his two closest advisors had been observing vigil too. They really shouldn’t have. How worn-out they must be, with Daichi having just returned from a tiresome journey, and Suga having stayed up the previous night as well, making final preparations for the Festival of Return.

And perhaps now, they will finally be able to sleep in peace, no longer needing to fret for Kageyama’s precarious future.

“Welcome to the Karasuno clan, Hinata Shouyou,” he hears Suga say. “We’ve waited a long time for you.”

 _Hinata_ ...is that his name? It is a strangely elegant name for a peasant, an rather uncommon name around these parts. _Hinata Shouyou does sound fitting_ , he thinks grudgingly. More fitting than most of _Shouyou_ ’s previous owners, in fact.

The peasant makes an incoherent stuttering sound of fright or incomprehension, maybe both.

“W...what is going on? W-why has this happened to me?”

 _That’s what I would like to know as well_ , Kageyama sighs. His palms are tingling more strongly than ever, and from the way the boy, _Hinata_ , absently rubs his left hand against his hakama, he knows that the other must be feeling it as well. Ah. The next few months, possibly years, are going to be one unending headache.

“And i-if I’m really a W-wielder, as you say,” Hinata continues. “I’m supposed to have a p-partner right? W-who is t-that?” It is as if he is more afraid of the answer than he is afraid of Daichi and Suga, who must be plainly intimidating to countryfolk like him.

 _HOW STUPID IS HE?_ Kageyama fumes as the room dissolves into laughter. That is Tsukishima sniggering, all right. Why the nerve of him -

“Oh Hinata,” Suga giggles, reaching for the boy’s skinny shoulders. “Turn around. He’s right behind you.”

And then, time itself seems to halt all around Kageyama, as Hinata turns around and he finds himself face to face again with the boy one of his retainers almost beheaded. But never before has he noticed the way Hinata’s round eyes sparkle, like the glitter of resplendent sunlight over the ever-changing waters of Lake Biwa on bright summer days. The light in them bear straight into Kageyama’s own and stops his heart for the barest of moments.

 _Even if your Other is previously known to you, to see him after bonding is like meeting him for the first time,_ Yamaguchi had said. _And yet it is strangely familiar, like reuniting with an old acquaintance from a time just beyond memory...like a past existence._

And indeed, it is both as if he has never seen Hinata before, and as if he has known him for the longest of times, perhaps longer than he has lived. It is the most bizarre of sensations, as if his mind is tripping over itself in an attempt to sort out jumbled memories that may or may not exist. One that he dearly hopes will wear off after a while.

And then he lowers his gaze and begins to bow the symbolic First Bow, bending on one knee and pulling the blade Shouyou from his waist, which had been there since his vigil began.

“I, Kageyama Tobio, humbly welcome you to the Karasuno clan,” he recites numbly, his mind murkier than the bottom of a well, his ears hazed and ringing. “I present you the blade _Shouyou_ , your -”

“Y-you’re not a p-pathetic heir!” a spluttering voice suddenly interrupts, close to his face and thunderous his ears. “Y-you saved my life. And Yachi’s too.”

But Kageyama barely hears it, because at the same time, there is a sudden, jarring impact to his temple, as if a racing horse had rammed into his head. The pain is acute and unexpected, and white sparks erupt in his vision. _Shouyou_ falls out of his hand and clatters onto the ground with a resounding clang.

“Owwww!!!” the voice yells, followed by a dull thud. Kageyama slaps his hands onto his throbbing temple and opens his eyes, only to see that the peasant has toppled onto the floorboards, rolling around with his own hands on his forehead.

It’ll have been highly comical to watch if he’d not felt like doing the same. He sits back on his heels and breathes rapidly through his teeth, his vision spinning and his thoughts on fire. Vaguely, he registers the laughter of a dozen men as they finally lose the fight against their overwhelming amusement despite the formality of the occasion.

He suddenly knows what has happened. Why...the...the _stupid little peasant_ had tried to bow _at the same time_ , and they’d knocked heads. Hard. 

Of all the...

 _Hinata!!!!_ Kageyama howls inside his head, mortified heat rising up his neck.

Of all the _dumbest things_ that can happen!!

This little...this stupid, uncontrollable, exasperating little...

...  
_Dumbass_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol Kageyama has ran out of insults. Anw sorry for the late update, my last semester at Uni is turning out to be unexpectedly busy (Senpais you have lied ;_;) 
> 
> Yep do feel free to leave a comment!! Or you can come talk to me on tumblr (http://keyade.tumblr.com)


	4. A Glimpse in the Waking World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa's POV, 2 years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO AFTER THE LONGEST HIATUS EVER, I'M BACK MUAHAHA. While I was missing, I was learning how to play volleyball (in a very intensive crash course) from the wonderfully talented person that is now my beta haha :D Say hi to my coach/beta Sapphire!! :) 
> 
> Also, warning for sexual abuse in this chapter. It’s pretty cruel and I’ve made no effort to romanticise it. But other than that, enjoy! This chapter is more exciting than usual, hope it was worth the wait!

 

_Yumeji ni wa ashi mo yasumeru_

_Kayoedemo utsutsu ni hitome_

_Mishi gato wa arazu_

 

I go to you in the path of my dreams

Yet all our meetings cannot compare

To a single glimpse in the waking world.

_\- Ono no Komachi_

 

[Two Years Ago]

 

Oikawa Tooru raises his teacup, shielding his mouth with his other hand as he drinks, as is proper before a host of higher rank than him.

 

There is only one such man. And that is the Shogun himself.

 

But he takes a slow draught deliberately, if only to give himself momentary respite from the constant pretense that is his life, his hand covering the loathing in his eyes that he yearned to bare. He sees his Wielder mark in the process, and resentment more bitter than the tea in his mouth, rises up his throat almost causes him to choke.

 

But of course he doesn’t. To show weakness before this man is to concede defeat.

 

“Your disobedience baffles me,” the Shogun states,face impassive and voice hard as stone.

 

There it is again, the word Oikawa detests the most. _Disobedience_. It is such an ugly word, like a stain of soiled blood against silken white sheets, like a horrid scar on an expanse of once perfect skin. It brings back sudden and unbidden recollections he’d once lost himself trying to repress, and this time, he does choke a little.

 

“Is suffering what you enjoy, then?” the Shogun continues with no inkling of sentiment. This is what aggravates Oikawa the most - not what the man has done or can do, but rather, how he can do them with unaffected, remorseless stoicness. He is not taunting, and his cruelty isn’t a mockery of Oikawa. Sometimes, Oikawa is even sure he bears no ill will, but that is a ridiculous thought.

 

No ordinary human emotions, no ability to empathise - it’s just the unusual existence Shogun Ushijima Wakatoshi leads. And to Oikawa, who experiences the world through the ebb and flow of its multitude of emotions, the Shogun is barely human...perhaps, even less human than the Majestic _Tennou_ (Japanese god-like emperor) himself.

 

So Oikawa finds himself chanting his favourite Komachi poetry in his head, one that he learned from Takeda sensei, in an acrimonious attempt to keep his most vicious comeback from escaping his lips. After all these years, he has come to know the consequences too well.

 

But the Shogun’s whims are as unpredictable as the tides upon the _Yumigahama_ shore, and the topic doesn’t pass the way Oikawa desperately hopes it will. With a slow pace calculated to terrify, he reaches across the tea table, settling his coarse fingers on Oikawa’s neck, just below his jaw. It slides down like venomous little snakes, stopping just before his collar, which he’d deliberately folded in tightly today to avoid... _this_. He sets down his cup and lowers his gaze, frantically wishing that he would not actually gag from intense disgust...and though he can never admit it...acute terror.

 

Because for all his seeming inability to feel, the Shogun is unjustifiably good at commanding intense fear from those he confronts. Deliberately so, Oikawa is convinced.

 

But wrapped tightly or not, the weak fabric is no match for Shogun’s forceful prying. It is the middle of summer, and despite the stifling heat, Oikawa made sure to wear two layers instead of one, and tie his obi in a more complex way, and sit as far from the table as he discreetly can...if only for the purpose of riling the Shogun up a little more with each fruitless act of resistance - his only defense.

 

Not that any of these ever had any perceptible effect. His feeble showcases of defiance are always peeled away as easily as layers of a cabbage.

 

And despite the midday heat, Oikawa shudders as air wafts across his bared shoulders. He clings more tightly to the fabric that covers the remainder, expression hidden beneath his lowered head, teeth biting his lips so hard he can taste copper.   


_Don’t touch it._

 

The Shogun’s fingers ghost over the scar...the wretched scar on his right shoulder, just below the back of his neck.

 

It’s the second cursed, indelible mark he wears. As if one is not more than enough. And unbidden panic, panic that he’ll perhaps never learn to reign, threatens to spill forth in the form of pleading words and betray his terror.

 

_Please, please! Anything but that!_

 

He can still plead in the solitude of his mind, but it makes him loathe himself more than the Shogun. What will they say, if they see him right now? The Daimyo Oikawa Tooru, a swordsman so skilled he can take on ten lesser _musashi_ all by himself, brought to his knees by a single touch, helpless as a newborn chick.

 

At the complete mercy of another man.

 

_Don’t touch it. I beg you, I beg you._

 

But of course it is no use. And inevitably, as he has done so many times before, the Shogun’s fingers press against the scar.

 

It is as if molten iron is suddenly poured down his spine, seizing his throat in a silent scream. It takes all of Oikawa’s will not to double over, and all the strength of his back to keep sitting upright against the inconceivable pain. In his earlier days, he had cried and begged and thrashed on the ground without a slice of dignity. It hurts not an ounce less, but the pain has become decidedly familiar over the years and he is almost proud that he can now get by with no more than streams of choked tears down his cheeks and fists clenched so hard that his nails begin to bend backwards.

 

Of course the Shogun knows its effect on him, and of course the touch is deliberately meant to punish. He’d specifically wanted it to be so. _Bind him to me the way a sword is bound to its master,_ the Shogun had said to his priests. And true to his command, the agony he could put Oikawa through, whenever he wanted, is same as the pain of being marked by a Wielder sword for the first time. It is a pain that the Shogun knows, having experienced it only once himself, when he was chosen by the blade _Wakatoshi_.

 

The worst agony known to mankind.

 

How unfair then, that Oikawa would have to go through this ordeal countless times at the mercy of his overlord when it is only meant to be experienced once. How unfair, that something so damaging, so vicious and so... _senselessly_ _inhumane_ should be used so carelessly on him, again and again.

 

But the real torture, Oikawa knows, is that there is no moment of respite from this pain, even when he is not being deliberately tormented. The lingering burn of the scar never fully leaves him, not since the day he was held down by a dozen hands as it was seared into his skin like a ghastly, imperishable memory. It tingles every moment of his waking life, a dull persistent ache that he’d scratched and chafed at too many times - until it tore and bled, until his throat was hoarse and his eyes dry. Suga had created enough soothing ointments and concoctions to run an apothecary, and yet only the simplest sleep draughts were of any effect, because they could throw him into deep, senseless dreams of distant memories of better times, when he was still free.

 

He wants to laugh at himself - his dreadful and grovelling self. The Great Lord Oikawa Tooru indeed. So what if hundreds and thousands would bow at his feet, singing his name in praise?  What of all his outstanding ability and wit? What worth is fortune and prestige, if they cannot buy him a gentler fate? And after he is gone, surely the people will whisper, “The Great Lord Oikawa Tooru held ten thousand lives in the palm of his hand, and was yet doomed by a single flick of the Shogun’s finger.”

 

And in the end, he is nothing but an expensive pawn, a slave to the overwhelming ambitions of a calm madman. Perhaps the gods have given him more than he could ever want as compensation for the harsh fate he must meet too soon. After all, _sakura_ trees with the brightest blossoms always faded first, and even the most beautiful of _natsu matsuri_ fireworks died quickly into nothingness - as if it was unfair for their beauty to last for more than a fleeting moment.

 

But today, something brings him comfort. For at long last, the end of his waiting, his suffering, his days grovelling in the clutch of the Shogun has come.

 

Today he makes his choice.

 

_To be free._

 

So he stays resolutely silent against the fire wrecking through his body, against the ghosts of trauma-induced hallucinations dancing before his eyes. He counts the seconds and quietly marks every additional one that he can keep from screaming as a quiet victory against the Shogun. It takes fifty before he has no more tears left to cry and the blood from his bitten lip begins to flow out of his mouth, another fifty before the flashing sparks he sees begin to take up the majority of his vision, and another fifty before the Shogun finally releases his dreadful hold, just before Oikawa passes out. But as always, the Shogun’s hand lingers, as a constant warning of the head-splitting torment that can resume at his slightest whim.

 

“I ask again, Oikawa,” the Shogun says. “Will you choose to take the lease of life I offer you, to serve me at Shiratorizawa?”

 

Oikawa doesn’t sigh, because no sigh can speak his despair.

 

Ahh, how terribly sad this all is. He wants to live, he truly does. There are so many things he hasn’t quite done - like proving to annoying little Tobio-chan that he was still years too early to challenge him, flirting with the court ladies, reading Takeda-sensei’s beautiful poetry, going on long long journeys with Daichi...

 

...and perhaps even, to make Karasuno a legend again.

 

How stupid he is, to allow himself to dream of things that cannot possibly come to pass.

 

“Is your foolish pride worth more than your life?” the Shogun asks, his fingers travelling. The tea table is pushed away, forgotten, as he leans closer. The tea in their cups have gone as cold as Oikawa’s hands anyway.

 

“Remember me by this worthless pride then,” Oikawa whispers, his throat hollow and his eyes lifeless. How he wishes he is already dead, so that he doesn’t have to feel the touches which churns his stomach and brings bile to his tongue.

 

Bear with it. One last time.

 

“One last time,” the Shogun echos. Oikawa is mildly surprised - is this the Shogun’s (remarkably poor) attempt at consolation? Perhaps there exist emotions in this world which even the Shogun cannot avert.

 

Loss, regret, disappointment...for after all, this _is_ the end.

 

“I am too old for _wakashudo_ ,” Oikawa murmurs at the Shogun’s shoulder as his back touches the _tatami_ flooring, the words he truly wants to say lost in nameless resignation.

 

“And too young to go,” the Shogun replies in kind, as if responding to a riddle. His massive form eclipses Oikawa’s vision, and for the barest of moments, so fleeting that it may never have been, his eyes seem to look past Oikawa, as if glancing at a phantom only he can see.

 

A glint of sadness, perhaps? But surely, that is impossible. The Shogun does not feel sadness. Strange, isn’t it, that even at the very end, Oikawa can no more decipher the mystery that is the man Ushijima Wakatoshi than the day they first met.

 

Perhaps this is why he is the Shogun, and Oikawa is a mere pawn. Attachments lend warriors to weakness, and the Shogun has no weakness. He is always, always victorious.

 

As Oikawa closes his eyes, the stings of pain and shame fills his being. Today he revels in them, because if even for a while, they make him forget a sensation far worse - the finality of defeat.

 

For today, they have both lost, pawn and overlord alike - to the fickle wheel of fate.

 

And tomorrow is the day he rides back to Karasuno, tomorrow is the day he raises the blade _Tooru_. He will not cower, he will not hesitate. He is still the warrior he was born to be, and he will be remembered as one. He will accept his loss in this game of odds with more grace than anyone before him.

 

He will not cry. _He will not cry_...not even when he sees Suga cry.

  
He will hold his head high.

 

 

-END-

 

To thank you guys for still sticking with this story after I practically disappeared into thin air, I drew some doodles of things to expect in this story as we go forward! :)

 

                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be a bit confusing, so here's some explanation in plain English!
> 
> The Shogun has bound Oikawa to him the way a sword binds its wielder, for some reason. He deeply admires Oikawa’s talents and is always trying to find a way to make use of them. Seeing that Oikawa is running out of time (to find a partner) and must commit seppuku soon, the Shogun offered him a lease of life - to spare him from this fate if Oikawa would serve him at his castle. 
> 
> However, Oikawa clearly hates him. Google “wakashudo” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). While it is traditionally consensual, in this case, it’s not. And just to be sure: while I occasionally write about abuse, I don’t in any way condone it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Next chapter should be up soon now that I’ve gotten myself back in the hype for this fic. As usual, comments and reviews will be super appreciated!! <3


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